


when we were young

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Don't Like Don't Read, Drabble Series, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Rebirth, WIP, and then this happens, implied character deaths but nothing too significant, reincarnated characters might not be explicitly like canon, so i was on spotify again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:44:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: Percy Jackson lives to the ripe old age of 98, his grandchildren surrounding his deathbed whilst he breathes his last. He goes not with a bang, nor a whimper but with a content heart and mind at peace.And then, he wakes up-- although, he is not the only one to do so.(drabble series, WIP)





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so not gonna lie, this was more of an experiment for me to see if writing shorter and connected drabbles makes it easier for me to actually finish a story. I'm always keen to write the fluff and the angst, especially the angst, but when it comes to the mundane moments between plot twists I'm always quick to bore. So here's a wee trial to fix that! This fic will be a series of drabbles that I'll hopefully update whenever I can as a bit of a writing exercise, but I hope you enjoy! Character's maybe a little OC but then again it wouldn't be an AU if it was strictly by the books! :)

**I.**

It is dark for a long time, warm and thick and safe. The gentle thud of a drum in the darkness, its echoes spreading through every inch of that infinite, black space. Soothing vibrations sending warmth through the dark, like a bat in the night, fissions of dark brilliance shooting through the blackness.

And then _squeeze._ Walls closing in, tight, cloying and suffocating. Air disappearing as the pressure mounts, body compressing in a silent scream, too hot, too close, too _much._

Suddenly, everything changes. An explosion of taste, touch, sound, sight and smell. Searing light and sounds and touches rake across delicate senses. Large hands close around him tightly and turn him over, wipes the mucus from his pale, pink scrawling body. Smooth plastic, that burns across his new skin, the frigid surface of something cold and harsh and his screams, shrill and sobbing and –

Warm hands have him, wrap him in a cosy blue blanket, large and soft, little calluses in the whirlpool of long fingers.

His eyes flicker open.

A blonde haired man stares back at him in the dim light, jaw slack, azure blue eyes widen in awe. His nose is a little crooked and there is a vague black tattoo on his neck.

“Hullo, love,” The man says thickly in an English accent, eyes bright, lips tilted up softly. “We’ve waited for you a long time.”

He stares up at the man feeling oddly content and safe, nestled in the crook of his arms.

The man looks up, looking to someone outside his peripheral. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Perfect.” The second voice is deeper, a curl of Spanish through the syllables, and a third, darker, warm hand rests on his forehead. There is a gold band on this man’s fingers that presses warm against his forehead, gently. “You’re both perfect.”

The second man steps into view, taller, broader, with slim glasses, and embraces the first, the hand on his head sliding off to entwine into the blonde strands of the first and they rest their foreheads against each other, to look at him.

He stares back at them, quiet and still.

The second man is darker, a tight curl to the bitter chocolate of his hair, brown almost black eyes warmly taking him in. He knows this one, knows the dark fire in his eyes, a strange familiar undercurrent in his unfamiliar but soft, fond smile.

“Say hello to Papa,” The first says, a tear breaking down his cheeks, smile threatening to reach his ears.

 _Papa_ looks fit to cry too, his warm dark hands breaking away from their place at the blonde man’s neck. Fingers trace down his face, slowly and spidery, gentle and soft with reverence; down his forhead, to the tip of his nose, traces his lips down to his chin and chest and rests there, a little to the left.

“I can feel his heart.” Papa whispers. It’s a different face, a different voice but as sure as the tiny heart beats beneath his own chest - _Hades,_ his own soul whispers back.

The blonde man kisses his Papa’s cheek and rests the tip of his own ringed finger next to the other’s on his chest. “Papa and Dada, how strange,” The blond man - _Dada_ \- chuckles.

Papa, _Hades_ soul _,_ stoops low to press a soft kiss against his small forehead, finger still resting above his little heart. “He’s our new beginning, a fresh start,” He murmurs, blue eyes bright.

“Our little _Phoenix.”_


	2. two

**II.**

Phoenix is a terrible name. It’s the kind of name only cool people can pull off, charisma and charm needed in spades. It can’t be shortened, there are no nicknames, no ways to make it a little less showy. If his parents had decided to give him Phoenix as a middle name, maybe that would have been more acceptable.

It’s also a horrid thing to spell at nearly four years old with the P and the H making a weird ‘ffff’ sound and the O and the E joining forces to make life hard enough that a big boy might cry. So little Phoenix, at three ( _nearly four)_ years old, demands his Papa and Daddy change his name to Percy.

So much easier.

And a little more bearable.

The irony of his original name doesn’t escape Percy, he adamantly calls himself despite his dads rolling eyes and huffs of laughter, and whilst his parents tell him he was a fresh start for them, it only acts as a reminder of how he died.

And then woke up.

In this life ( _World? Universe? Reality? Existence?),_ his name is Phoenix Mikhel López, son of Adrian, his new Papa, and David, his new Daddy, through surrogacy and three years old. His skin is dark like his Papa’s and his hair a lighter shade and straighter than his Papa’s cropped close afro but his eyes are the same blue of his Daddy’s, and his ears the same shape. He has his Papa’s stubbornness and temperance, they tell him, but his Daddy’s appetite and penchant for mischief.

But his brain – the one which sparks loud, scary arguments between Papa and Daddy about IQs and testing and MENSA, even at three years old – Phoenix knows he got from Percy.

Percy Jackson, who, in another _existence-reality-world_ , hated his first name too but grew into it. Percy who hadn’t been brought up in the little happy flat above Papa’s garage but a dingy apartment with damp mould and leaky ceilings, who had never really known the feeling of being protected because he was the man of the house and he had to protect his Mom from his greasy, quick-tempered stepfather. Percy who had been a scared little boy, that had somehow through luck, blood, tears emerged a hero - despite never really wanting to be. Percy, who had found his father in the oceans and died a little every time they parted. Percy, who had married a beautiful girl who could multitask like magic and had hair like Cinderella and had three beautiful children.

His dads are a little bewildered by where he got the name Percy. None of their friends, or storybook characters, or telly favourites are called Percy, but they humour him, assuming he’ll forget about it in a couple of days.

 

 

By the time he’s five, he’s enrolled in Primary One as Percy and his dads are forced to exchange hopeless but bemused expressions when the receptionist at the front desk wrinkles her brow and hesitantly asks if he is “Phoenix López” and he interrupts her before she can finish by emphatically going:

“Percy,” He says imperiously, button nose scrunching in distaste, “It’s Percy.”

The lady bids them follow the signs to classroom 1A and then turns to the next parent and child in the queue behind them.

Tucked between Papa and Daddy, holding his hands and swinging him gently between them and his new lime green penguin backpack thumping reassuring against his spine, a little too big on his narrow shoulders. Their hands are warm and large around his, Daddy’s fingertips rough from working at the garden centre and Papa’s palms rife with little nicks and burns from working at the garage. Even though money is tight, today Percy wears his private school uniform, heavy black blazer, crisp white shirt, blue tie, grey shorts and blue socks and his new black school shoes shine as they squeak across the floor. Even his dads have splurged, wearing dress shirts and jackets that he has never seen before, Daddy’s coat collar folded up a little to hide the black skull inked into the skin above his collarbone, beneath his ear.

He is joining the Primary One class at Harkness Hall so perhaps the pretence is not unneeded. It’s got a reputation, his parents whisper when they think he can’t hear, for educating old money type kids, heirs and heiresses with dollhouses the size of five cars, and pushing its students to their limits. He feels Papa’s hand tighten over his the further they walk, past huge floor to ceiling windows showing well-groomed gardens, a wooden adventure course that looks like it will be the most exciting thing in the playground and travel further through spotless halls with gold leaf trimming the ceilings and the accolades of past alumni displayed on the walls in silver frames.

By the time they reach his classroom, his dads have exchanged worried glances at least five times, Daddy bites his lip and Papa is scowling already and Percy knows they’re worried. He knows he was when his dropped off each of his children for their first days at school, in his other life as Jackson. As a López however, he’s mostly excited about meeting other children and making friends and exploring Harkness’ Library for more books.

Daddy kneels in front of him to dust down his blazer and straighten his tie. “Now you be a good boy, love, alright?” He runs his left hand through his blond hair, his gold ring shiny and pretty, glinting merrily under the sunlight streaming from a skylight. “Be good, work hard and make lots of friends, yeah?”

He pulls Percy into a hug, holds him just a little bit tighter even as the little boy murmurs his reply, “Course I will,” He beams as his Daddy lets him go, hands still holding his shoulders, “I’m gonna show them Dippy and then they’ll have to be my friend!”

His Daddy grins, “And what about working hard and being good?”

“That sounds awful hard,” Percy tries to pout but spoils it by giggling.

Papa stands behind them, expression soft as he tugs at his ear piercing absentmindedly, looking fond but a little lost. So Percy ducks out of his Daddy’s clutches and runs straight at his Papa’s long legs until he collides with an _oof!_ And then he hugs Papa’s knees until Papa’s trembling hand is carding through Percy’s soft curls, ruffling them slightly and ruining Daddy’s preening.

“Be good, Phoenix,” His voice deep and smooth but his shaking hand still atop the five-year-old’s head.

The boy scowls, “Percy.”

Papa and Daddy both laugh and Percy leaves them behind a little lighter, and darts through the door into the classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl, though if anyone's name is Phoenix I mean no offence, but the thought of Percy's new dad giving him such a hippie name has me giggling all over again! XD


	3. three

**III.**

Somehow, Percy _knows_ people before he knows them.

It is in the face of Papa, who Percy had instinctively wanted to call Hades from the moment he opened his eyes, the soul he used to be when Percy was a Jackson and not a López. It is curious. His Papa is not much like the God of the Underworld was the last time he had seen him. Hades had been a bitter immortal, weathered and broken by the losses of his mortal lover and his half-blood daughter. Nico had helped but he was a boy growing and could not be tethered to his father. The god had never seemed happy, smirking sardonically, chuckling bitterly, something warped and broken within him. Hades was great, but he was not necessarily whole. He had been hurt by his siblings, scorned by his wife and alone for most of an infinite eternity.

But Papa, Adrian López is not like that. He has a handsome face and Spanish features, his springy cropped afro showing a few of his more African roots. He is a fix-it man, less of a schemer and more of a do-er. He loves cars and motors, his job, with a passion and usually has black grease smeared on his shirt or face, a faint smell of petrol clinging to him always. He is a little gruff, more likely to shout if Percy got into trouble, but he is kind too and is, Percy hopes, content with his life.

Percy has no idea how reincarnation, for that is surely what this is, works.

How can an immortal god who can never die be reborn? If this is reincarnation why does he remember everything? If the Isle of Blessed is responsible, why does he not remember three lives instead of one?

Papa and Percy are not the only ones whose souls came back.

Three weeks into the summer holidays, an Asian lady moves in across the street into one of the flats above the grocer’s shop. She keeps her hair up in a high pony tail of sleek black and wakes up every morning to jog for an hour before returning. Daddy attempts to bake some brownies, following some recipe online that he saw on the telly, but they end up hard as bricks and black as the lady’s hair, so he bins them and nips out to the bakery on the next street to bring back a box of cupcakes. Percy sneaks a blue one and helps Daddy pack the rest into a Tupperware box from home so it ‘looks like we made them’.

He’s pretty sure the lady won’t fall for it.

But they head across anyways, Daddy holding his hand as they cross the road. Percy scowls and says over and over that he’s ‘six already!’ but Daddy chuckles and doesn’t let go. They ring her doorbell, Percy’s not sure how Daddy knows which one it is but somehow he does, and she hesitantly buzzes them in. Daddy has a twinkle in his blue eyes that he always gets when he’s planning to play a prank – Percy would know since his Papa always says that’s how he knows when Percy is playing pranks. They traipse up the step and Daddy let’s Percy knock on the door.

Percy makes sure he’s rapping the rhythm to Papa’s favourite Billy Joel song, the one Daddy hates, when he does and Daddy narrows his eyes to playfully glare at him.

He’s giggling when the door opens.

The Asian, most likely Chinese, lady looks at them in surprise, wearing a blue t-shirt and black jeans. She is quite pretty, and not nearly as old as he thought she was, her long black hair swept up in a haphazard bun, no makeup but clear skinned. There is a pen trapped behind her ear, a smudge of ink on her chin, but what catches his eye is the silvery birthmark on her collarbone, paler than a burn on her olive skin. There is a similar one on the sole of his left foot.

“Hullo,” Daddy says, stretching his hand out to shake hers, “I’m David López, from twenty-seven A across the road,” He greets, smiling brightly.

“Er…thanks,” She says haltingly, as he pushes the box of cupcakes into her hand. “Erm…I don’t mean to sound rude but…why-”

Daddy laughs, “My husband and I saw your ad in the Post Office, and we weren’t sure how long it might take for you to get booked up so I thought we’d bribe our way in.”

“Oh,” she flushes. “I have a full CV here if you want it…and I’m studying Engineering at the university so…”

Percy decides he’s fed up of being ignored. “I’m Percy,” He chirps, and her eyes fall to him. “Who’re you?” He asks rudely, even though he’s pretty certain he knows already.

“Phoenix,” Daddy scolds, ignoring his indignant cry of ‘Percy!’, “Papa and I wanted to get you a summer tutor, her name is –“

“Annabeth Tang,” She smiles warmly at him and the silver mark on his foot feels like its burning from carrying the world, “It’s lovely to meet you, Phoenix.”

Looking at her, he knows she remembers nothing about being Annabeth Chase. She looks at him as a little boy, one whom she does not know but doesn’t mind. She likes children, its clear from her face, but she doesn’t look like she’d want to be a mother anytime soon. He gazes past her into the flat, spotting little piles of loose paper, scribbled over with equations and diagrams and highlighter of different colours, and notes that it’s not too different from his Annabeth, who drew buildings instead of physics equations and worked on building blueprints instead of airplanes. Annabeth Jackson who was a formidable woman even in her eighties and had still been as beautiful as she was at twelve years old in the back of a truck amongst the zoo animals, the best wife and an ever better best friend.

He scowls at her, but feels like laughing, breathless and hysterically giddy. “It’s Percy, Wisegirl.”

The corner of almond eyes crinkle, and Annabeth Tang laughs indulgently

 but doesn’t remember.


	4. four

**IV.**

One day, during the Easter break, on the way back from Mark’s house, Percy spots a cat. It’s not the prettiest – or pretty at all in fact – it’s fur is unkempt and dirty, one of its pointed ears has a tear in it and its face is all kind of smushed up, it’s nosed upturned looking a little squashed onto his face.

It eyes him suspiciously as he crosses its path and hisses scarily when he attempts to reach out and pet it, throwing sharp claws his way. It’s white with a few tan splodges scattered on its fur, but the colour is kind of dark and dull compared to the other cats that usually hang around the area.

Percy makes a tutting sound with his tongue, and shimmies a little closer, crouched down close to the ground. “Hiya, haven’t seen you around before…” It kind of looks like it needs a hug and a bath and a trip to the vets but right now the animal is hissing and spitting at him and looks a hair away from ripping into him with sharp claws. So, he keeps his hands to himself. “I don’t have any food on me, but I’ll carry some with me tomorrow, yeah?”

Unsurprisingly, the cat doesn’t stop eying him like he’s scum of the earth.

He doesn’t see the cat the next day on the way home from Calum’s house, he’d told them about the cat and they’d gone off on a hunt around the neighbourhood carrying tins of tuna but they hadn’t seen it then either, and by the time he’s home he’s fairly certain the cat’s gone off to another neighbourhood.

But a few weeks later, he’s helping his Papa around in the garage on a slow weekend and out of the corner of his eye, he spots it twisting its way through the pile of old tires lying in a mound by the backdoor. Percy makes a little gasp of surprise and then whispers frantically as loud as he dares to “Papa, don’t make a sound, don’t move! I’ll be right back!”

He doesn’t stay to hear his Papa’s reply before he’s tearing through the workshop and running up the stairs, two at a time, up to the flat. He pushes the door open and scurries into the kitchen, fishing out the tin of tuna and plopping the contents of the can onto a plastic plate and then makes his way back down to the cat as fast as he can.

Papa seems not to have a clue about what’s going on because Percy can hear him whispering his name kind of loudly even though he’s still under the car, where his son left him.

“Papa, there’s a cat!”

His Papa stills and then sighs as Percy slowly pads his way towards the tyre pile. The cat’s nowhere to be seen now, but maybe it’s just wriggled its way inside the heap. He sets the plate down on the floor, close as he dares and then darts away.

When he gives Papa the all clear, the car mechanic eyes the tuna and his son exasperatingly, “you better clean that up later, or the garage is gonna stink,” He ruffles the boy’s hair. Percy scowls and tries to straighten the mess as best as he can. “C’mon, Robinson wants his car by three o’ clock so let’s get back to work.”

Later, when they close at seven in the evening, Percy’s helping his Papa tidy up for the day and goes back to collect the plate. And there on top of the pile, like an evil queen of the rubbish heap, sits the moody cat, glaring at him like he’s some dirty peasant being deigned with her presence. “You’re a right snob,” He mutters back to her and sticks his tongue out, “Worse than Alexander Watson the third, is what you are.” He bends down to collect the plate and blinks. It’s empty, seemingly licked clean.

“Percy, you’re Dad’s waiting!” Papa calls by the front of the workshop.

He looks up to find the summit of Tyre Mountain empty and the cat is nowhere to be seen.

“Coming!” He yells, and turns to leave. “Gonna call you Nancy Bobofit, you stupid cat.” He mutters under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dunno if Nancy's actually the cat, but I figured it would be pretty funny ^^


	5. five

**V.**

It’s late January when Percy has the worst day at school ever. It begins with waking on the wrong side of his bed, pajamas clinging to his skin uncomfortably, a horrible foggy feeling in his head and a persistent itching feeling in his too dry throat.

He attempts to sit up, swaying dizzily as the red digits of his turtle clock dance in his line of sight. He’s woken up a little later than usual, Daddy must have left for work already although Papa is probably still in bed.

He manoeuvres himself gingerly into his uniform, changing by half sitting, half-leaning on the bed. He can’t afford to stay home today, not when Daddy is due a promotion at the garden centre and Papa’s cars await him downstairs in the garage. His thoughts are strangely fluid and distant, intangible like trying to catch smoke with your fingers, but he manages to pull himself together and stumble out the flat and downstairs to the bus stop. His usual bus left ten minutes ago, so the chatter on this bus is marginally quieter without his friends from the neighbourhood and in the window seat he leans his face against the cool glass, uncaring of hygiene.

All day at school, he tries his hardest to sit up and pay attention as his vision gets blurrier and blurrier and sweat begins to build up on the back of his neck. There’s a dull cramp in his stomach and an ache in the back of his eyes but he screws his eyes tight, leans forward onto his desk and focuses as best he can because Percy Jackson fought his way out of Tartarus and faced monsters on the daily so what is one little cold in the face of all that.

Tabitha-May Grant – the girl he sits next to in class this term – eyes him with distaste and wrinkles her nose. “You should really go to see matrons, you know?” She whispers and nudges him, not unkindly but enough to jostle the precarious position of his arms trying to keep him from keeling over in the middle of the spelling test. “If you faint, I’m _not_ going to catch you and I do _not_ want to get sick.” She states with feeling.

“Shhh, Tabby,” He hisses back as he wobbles for a moment, before regaining some semblance of balance and hunkering down lower over his paper. He just has to make it through the day and then he can go back to bed once he’s home. “Some of us are concentrating on the test.”

“Don’t call me that!” She scowls and then sinks lower in her seat as Ms McPherson whips round to glare in their direction. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Onomatopoeia,” Ms McPherson says as she paces towards them, “Miss Grant and Mr Lopez this is a test! Not recess!” She eyes them sternly for a good moment, and Percy’s fingers tighten around his pen clammily in embarrassment. The teacher sighs and turns to resume the test. “Onomatopoeia, comic books often use onomatopoeias to create sound effects, the word is onomatopoeia.”

Hurriedly, Percy spells the words out, his joined-up-handwriting shaky and he dreads handing this in with the amount of ink splotches smeared on the page.

At recess, the playground is too loud and chaotic. Everyone is running and screaming and so he hides in the boys’ toilets, and presses wet, cool paper towels to his forehead, leaning over the sink. In here, Tabby can’t come in and nag him and the rest of the class are too busy playing outside to come in too. In the mirror, his face looks sallow and pale, slightly off colour and his whole body feels sticky with sweat. Right, only an hour and a half until lunch time and then two more hours until home-time. He can last that long, surely?

The bell rings shrilly somewhere outside, signalling the end of their break. He steadies himself against the sink and then makes for the door.

He does manage to last the whole day, miraculously, but not before Tabby squeals to Ms McPherson in front of the whole class and its only his quick thinking and poker-face that manage to keep him out of a trip to the infirmary and a call to his parents. Luckily, she believes his bare-face lie as the room around him kind of spins, but keeps an eye on him suspiciously for the rest of the day while Tabby shoots him glares that, if he were well enough to care, would probably have him cringing.

 When it’s time to go home, the distance between school and the bus stop never seems to end. Gravity weighs down his legs, like his shoes are treading through thick treacle and his head stuffed with cotton.

Climbing on the bus feels like scaling a mountain, his legs wobbly beneath him. The bus is jam-packed with people, and its only through sheer luck, and lack of balance that he manages to fall right up against the glass window when the bus takes a corner. The cool pane is a blessed relief against his too hot body, and Percy sighs against the glass, vision swimming.

.

He wakes to Papa leaning over him, face close. There’s a cool cloth on his forehead.

He tries to look around, but his eyelids feel weighted and heavy.  A hand clasps his cheek, calloused but comforting against the fever. “-Pa?” He tries.

Papa frowns at him, dark eyes looking tired, but fond. “You stupid boy,” He says, “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill this morning?”

Percy leans into the palm of his hand, just glad to be home. “M’school” He murmurs through a sigh as the damp cloth is replaced by a colder one. “’s’espensive.” Everything was too hot, and too close.

“That’s for us to worry about, silly,” His voice sounds odd, Percy thinks whimsically, kind of croaky and sad.

Papa shouldn’t be sad, he has Percy and Daddy, and Annabeth and Percy’s going to find everybody so that someday he’ll have Nico too, and Bianca and Tyson and Grover and no one will be lonely or sad again. “m’sorry,” He gasps desperately, and reaches to clutch Papa’s hands, “…gonna find them, promise.”

“Shhh, shhh,” Papa says, his voice a low, soft hum, “It’s gonna be okay, Perce, you’re going to be just fine…”

Distantly, he hopes Nico and Bianca had this, if not in Percy Jackson’s life, then he hopes they and all his friends have this wherever they are in Percy Lopez’s _when_.

_“It’s gonna be okay…you’re gonna be just fine…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, my best fluff is still fluffy angst I knowwwwww -_-


	6. six

**VI.**

Percy Lopez is eating a cookie at Annabeth's house as she goes over his maths homework. He's gotten most of it right, apart from a few silly mistakes that has her raising her brow. He watches as she carefully takes the red pen in her hand and circles the question number for him to look at later. It's not homework from school that he does in her flat, but questions she sets him.

She watches him solve them like he's a puzzle she's particularly fascinated by - or a building design she hasn't seen before. Or rather, an engine design. Her dark hair is in it's perpetual ponytail atop her head and spills down her back, swinging as she bobs her head to chew on the end of her pen.

"Good work, Percy!" She grins at him, setting the sheet down on the table. "This is pretty complex stuff."

"For a seven year old." He pouts.

Annabeth raises her eyebrow at him. "For a ten year old, Mr Genuine-genius."

Percy wrinkles his nose. It doesn't have quite the ring that Seaweed-brain does. "It's Pe-er-cy."

"Yes, Phoenix," she drawls with a laugh, brown eyes lighting up.

Percy scowls and opens his mouth to retort. Only the door bell rings before he can even muster a comeback. Annabeth laughs at his spluttering expression and hops off her seat, heading for the door. Her footsteps pad away as she trails down the hallway.

Is it cheating? To use Percy Jackson's knowledge as Percy Lopez? Percy knows that Jackson hadn't been stupid, but he certainly hadn't been as smart as Tabby at school. Not a  _ genius _ , as people seem intent on calling him. It feels a lot like cheating. Percy prefers it when people just call him smart, or precocious. Genius - implies a rare talent, beyond what's normal. If he's just smart then it freaks people out a lot less. It freaks him out less too.

The sound of chatter in the hallway gets louder as a pair of footsteps approach. Percy glances up. Annabeth enters the room, a flustered look to her face, her fingers pushing back a stray lock of black hair. Following behind her is a taller Asian man, Chinese too by the language of their conversation, athletic looking and sporting a casual shirt and slacks.

"Percy!" Annabeth smiles approaching the table. "I hope you don't mind if Jonah sits in the kitchen while we finish up?"

Percy shakes his head. "Hi," He smiles up at the man.

"Nice to meet you, buddy," Jonah grins back, reaching a hand forward to shake. "Anna's always bragging about the smart kid in her neighbourhood." He shoots the woman a fond look, checking her in the hip. "Gotta be smart to keep up with our Anna."

"Jesus!" Annabeth blushes, her hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, but Percy can tell she doesn't mind the teasing much. "Go and be embarrassing elsewhere, Jo!"

"Aye, aye!" Jonah chuckles, retreating back the way he came. "As my lady commands!"

They're dating Percy surmises, glancing between the two. The fond glances, the lingering touches. He feels like he should be feeling the jealousy any moment now, even as Annabeth gets her flush under control and sits back down, a picture of composure but for the silly grin on her lips. "Sorry about that, Jonah's a nice guy, I promise!"

He doesn't feel jealous though. And even as he wonders why, he feels like he knows the answer. Annabeth Tang is not Annabeth Chase. Oh they might share the same soul, the same passions, the same mannerisms; but Annabeth Tang has been raised by different parents, with different dreams and has lead a different life. And Percy's last name is not Jackson either, despite having once bared it. So, instead of feeling angry or upset, Percy feel happy that Annabeth is content.

"Is he your boyfriend?" He says slyly.

"My- my!" She splutters and flushes red from her face down to her neck. He can hear Jonah laughing in the kitchen. "No - I mean - he's -"

Percy bursts into laughter. She's content, she's happy. As long as his friends are happy, Percy doesn't mind how they live their lives. They deserve that much and more.

"Stop laughing at me! Both of you!"


	7. seven

**VII.**

Every year at Harkness, the classes are reshuffled and resorted again. He’s eight this year and in Primary 6 (he’d skipped a year on his scholarship) and Tabitha-May Grant is back in his class again but sat on the opposite side of the classroom this time.

His new seat partner is a boy, with glasses and with a bright shock of blond hair that he keeps puffing out of his eyes. “P-philip Wesley.” he introduces himself quietly, in the middle of Silent Reading, fidgeting in his seat.

Percy smiles back easily and answers just as quietly, “Percy Lopez.”

“Oh,” the freckled boy says, and smiles back cautiously.

He makes eye contact with Tabby across the room. She’s leaning on her left hand, the other shuffling lazily through the pages of the book on her desk with a thunderous look on her face that says she’s just about done with the chattering girl next to her – who doesn’t seem to be noticing the teacher approaching behind her. Tabby rolls her eyes at him when he grins at her predicament, though she looks scarily like a cross between Thalia and Clarisse about to explode on the pigtailed blonde beside her.

Percy huffs a laugh and goes back to his book.

.

Tabitha-May Grant had first appeared in his life on his first day at Harkness. She had wire-tight ringlets askew on her head in an attempt at a ponytail that looked more like an explosion of red than anything else, to be honest. They hadn’t really noticed each other that day though, what with all the colours of their new environment and the other twenty-eight people in their class.

Mr Anderson had then gathered everyone in a circle on the ladybug carpet in the centre of the classroom and made them introduce themselves to the rest of the class, one by one, according to who was holding a small cat plushie, named Mr Cat.

Mr Cat made his way slowly round the circle whilst everyone listed their name, their favourite colour and one interesting fact about themselves.

“I’m Tabitha-May Grant.” She said, in a loud voice, brushing her curls out of her face, looking not at all nervous by the amount of curious faces gazing back at her. “My favourite colour is green and my interesting fact is that I’m going to be the Prime Minister when I’m older.”

“B-but green is a BOY’S colour!” Someone gasped.

Immediately, she whipped around, hair flaying behind her. “Why do colours have to belong to anyone? Are you going to stop colouring in trees green, just because?”

And Mr Anderson had smiled placatingly at her, hand up in the air for silence. “Miss Grant is right, colours don’t belong to anyone and it doesn’t matter if you’re a girl who likes green or a boy who likes pink, we can all share, right?”

There were giggles and nods around the circle and Tabitha-May sniffed, imperiously, “Of course, I’m right!” She muttered.

There were a few more people to go, and Percy was in fact the last one to introduce himself.

“Erm,” He patted Mr Cat on the head and then smiled toothily. “I’m Percy Lopez, and I like all the colours!” He hums, trying to think up of an interesting fact. “Erm…” This is hard! He wants to say something different, there’s already been lots of people saying when they growing they want to be this, or that, or what their favourite food is… “Oh!” He breathes and sits up. “My best friend’s called Dippy and she’s a rainbow dinosaur Iguanodon!”

The class makes awed noises, and Mr Anderson smiles at him kindly. “Is Dippy a nice dinosaur? Or a mean one?”

“A nice one, obviously!”

Later, at recess, he grins when the boys at his table all crowd around his green penguin backpack, crowing about how cool it is.

“This is Dippy!” He says, exuberantly and brings her out of his bag. Dippy is fairly big for a toy. Her head is the size of a tennis ball, and made of soft, stretchy, stripy-rainbow nylon and has soft fur on her underbelly – even though he knows iguanodons were never really rainbow coloured or had furry bellies, but Dippy is special clearly. She has two wooden buttons for eyes and her curved tail hangs to his knee, her body is nearly half as big as his torso and really, she’s the perfect size for a cuddle.

“That’s not a REAL dinosaur.” A voice calls from the back.

As one, the whole group seem to turn. Percy scowls. “She is too! Just because she’s a rainbow one, doesn’t mean-”

“It’s not even got sharp teeth!” A boy pushes forward, sweeping brown hair out of his eyes. “I’m Alexander Charles Archibald Gabriel Watson, the third! And everyone knows dinosaurs have to have sharp teeth, anyways, that’s a baby’s toy!”

“She is not!” He shouts back, hugging Dippy close. “She’s a herbivore, so she eats vegetables only anyways! She doesn’t need canines! You’re mean!”

“No, I’m not!” The boy yells back, taking a step forward. “You’re just stupid!”

“I am not!”

“Are too! And you’re a baby! A whiny baby!”

Involuntarily, Percy feels his eyes begin to sting. Because, whilst he might have faced monsters before in another life and plenty of mean things happened, Percy is only four and everyone here is bigger than him and probably already six! “I’m not a baby!” He warbles back, feeling the blush rise in his face, “I’m not!”

“Yes, you - !”

Mr Anderson is standing in the middle of the group suddenly, and the whole room has gone silent. Percy sniffs, trying to hold back tears, and it sounds scarily loud in the big classroom. “What is going on here? Mr Watson, we do not call each other names at Harkness Hall!” The teacher says sharply, and eyes them both. “Would someone like to tell me what is going on here?”

Nobody moves.

“I see,” says Mr Anderson. “This is the first day of class, so this is your first warning.” Around him, the class seems to wilt in relief. “If this happens a second time, I will be calling home to your parents.”

Both boys nod seriously.

“Right, recess is over so everyone else head back to your seats, Mr Lopez please put that away and then go sit down.”

The group scatters.

“Now, Mr Lopez, I know its your first day at Harkness Academy.” Mr Anderson kneels down to his level to help him put Dippy back into his bag. “But do try to get along with everyone.”

Percy pouts. “But, Mr Anderson, he said Dippy wasn’t a real dinosaur because she was herbivorous! That’s just silly!”

The teacher hummed, and helped him zip up the bag. “Well, not everyone knows as much about dinosaurs as you do, so you might have to forgive them for that.”

They have tests after recess, mixtures of maths and spelling and reading, to find out their groups for lessons. Percy finds himself thrust into the Purple Group, alongside Tabitha-May Grant and Gregory Chen and Anvi Singh who all look surprised to find him there. Watson is in the orange group.

Anvi smiles and shyly says, “Dippy has all the right proportions for an iguanodon, I think.”

“You were right about the herbivore bit!” Gregory grins at him.

“Everyone knows Watson is stupid,” Tabitha-May scowls and rolls her eyes, “Besides, it was rainbow and fluffy, so it’s appearance was inaccurate anyways.”

“Ignore her,” Gregory laughs, “She’s just bitter we have new person in the Purple Group.”

“And he’s tiny!” Tabitha-May crosses her arms, “How old are you anyways?”

“Uhm,” Percy bites his lip, hoping Mr Anderson will make it back to their group soon. They all seem nice, even if Tabitha’s a bit bossy. “Nearly five? Tabi-” And bites his tongue in his haste.

“TABBY!” She hisses, “I am NOT a cat! My name is Tabitha-May, say it after me you tiny midget!”

When Mr Anderson does get back it’s to his advance placement Purple Group being more rambunctious than he’s ever seen them, and promptly debates switching to part-time work.


	8. eight

**VIII.**

He comes home from his usual tutoring session at Annabeth’s to an empty house. He locks the door behind him and lets his green penguin backpack drop to the floor. He’s a little old for it now, and the penguin’s orange beak is a little worse for wear but he likes it anyways.

The flat is lit up already, the lights in the hallway, kitchen and living room on. He wanders into the kitchen first, for a good sarnie, kicking off his shoes haphazardly. Papa will scold him later, he knows, but stomach wins over Papa at the moment.

He’s nearly ten now, he notes absently as he reaches up to the top shelf of the fridge to grab the margarine. One more year at Harkness’ accelerate courses and then he’ll need to decide between going off to high school to take the national exams, and skip three years; or stay home and take online courses so that he can delay the national exams for later. He butters both sides of the bread and adds the fillings before lowering his towering cheesy masterpiece into the oven.

Harkness itself is fine. Sometimes people give him funny looks or Alexander Watson III gives him a glare and a pointed word - but he remembers how Percy Jackson's friends were. The way a beautiful girl called Silena used to smile so genuinely at people that they couldn't help but answer her with a smile. The way a bespectacled boy called Malcolm could always diffuse a fight in the Athena cabins, logic and reasoning and sharp as a whip. Some of the kids don't like him hanging out with them, or say that their parents told them to stay away from him. Their noses crinkle the moment they find out he has two dads or that he can’t afford the latest gaming device, let alone receive an island named after himself for his birthday – at least at first. And then he tells them what Annabeth Tang, his tutor-from-across-the-street, told him about prejudice and bias and lean forwards like Clarisse La Rue used to (right in their faces so that they used to be able to see every freckle from bashing heads in the sun) and then he grins, like he knows something they don't (like the Stoll twins before a prank, all upturned lips and a flash of teeth).

He hopes that wherever Percy Jackson's friends are, that they were happy. Even if they don't remember, like his Dad - Adrian - or like Annabeth Tang. He remembers and he won't forget.

Tabitha-May will stomp over and swat him for trying to start a fight, and the rest of the Purple group will peer over curiously from whatever they're doing, scattered around the playground.

He sits down at the table, the perfect toastie on a plate, gooey and ooey with melted cheese dripping down the sides of the bread. Percy Lopez bites a hot mouthful of his sandwich.

It would be funny, he has to admit, if the Nancy Bobofit Percy Jackson had encountered is the cat he'd named for her in this life.


End file.
